


e v e r m o r e

by motherofrevels



Series: L'enfant bleu Cendrillon — null [3]
Category: Onward (2020)
Genre: Brother/Brother Incest, Incest, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:06:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28005123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/motherofrevels/pseuds/motherofrevels
Summary: Revolving apart, then back together.CONTENT WARNING: Please consider reading the applied tags carefully.
Relationships: Barley Lightfoot/Ian Lightfoot, Barley Lightfoot/Original Female Character(s), Gaxton Valles/Ian Lightfoot
Series: L'enfant bleu Cendrillon — null [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1972084
Comments: 6
Kudos: 5





	1. 🌕 w i l l o w 🌕

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of fiction containing potentially triggering content, involving sibling incest. If this bothers you in any way, please feel free to check out some of the other, far more amazing works of fiction by some of the other, far more talented writers here on Archive of Our Own. Thank-you!

“Ah! A little midday mead to sooth the soul,” bellowed gilded baritone, “I trust this reunion finds ye well?”

But oh, how heavy was the sound to sagittate ears of Cendrillon blue.

“ _Good_ , man . . . I’ve been _good_.”

And as Iandore reached for the comfort of a lie, his brother readily accepted.

A year had passed since the dreamcicle days of Barley’s Willowdale voyage. As do all grand adventures, his had ultimately drawn to a bittersweet close. With his bachelor’s degree in history firmly secured, the eldest of the Lightfoot brothers had flourished into a career in academia, seeking to share his infatuation with harrowing expeditions and the wonders of bygone days with the next generation of promising young historians. Many of whom were less than five years his junior.

And then there was _Heather_ , the glimmering marvel who had somehow managed to seize the chronicler’s heart, against all odds. A little eccentric, a touch raucous, and widely adored.

But Barley only _scarecely_ admired his Willowdale beau, more than her now mother-in-law. Though it often exasperated Iandore, Laurel was head over heels for her family’s most recent addition. Whilst in each other’s company, the two were virtually inextricable.

And that reverence only heightened with the announcement of Barley’s first child, yet sleeping safely within their mother.

It seemed his world was spun from golden silk.

“So, where’s the _old man?_ ” Barley snickered, quirking an unkempt brow and raking a broad hand through his now heartbreakingly corporate mane. “And the kid?”

Though Ian merely rolled his eyes, incapable of chewing back the smirk tugging at his lips in response to his brother’s jovial character.

“Gaxton’s _working_ today . . . You _know_ that. He works with _you_ ,” the lesser Lightfoot quipped, interlocking svelte arms along his delicate ribs. “And _Sorrel_ , he’s . . . I-I dunno. _Out_. With his _friends_ , I guess—”

“You guess?” Barley quipped, extending a calloused hand to tousle his sibling’s cherubic curls. “You _sure_ you’re cut out this _motherhood_ thing, baby bro?”

Swatting away his elder’s impish gesture, the sun-kissed illusionist conjured a lighthearted glower.

“M- _Mother?_ Who? M- _Me?_ ” he inquired, effectively fending off the fabler’s touch. “I-I’ll have you know; **_I_** wear the pants in my relationship, Barley,” Ian boasted, elevating his profound nose as he returned his waifish arms to their previous entanglement.

And that was all it took to flood the room with might; Barley’s laughter glancing along the charmingly papered walls.

“ _Oh-ho-ho!_ Is that **_so_** _?_ ” the gamer bellowed, tossing back the remainder of his afternoon ale. “Gonna have to call your bluff on _that_ one, little brother. You may be a _wizard_ , but you haven’t worn the pants in _any_ relationship you’ve _ever_ been in.”

The laughter they shared was distinctly one-sided, Iandore’s façade giving way to reality.

“ _Yeah_ . . . Well,” he trailed with a shrug, pulling the fullness of his lower lip between his teeth as he eyed his brother’s emptied goblet. “I do what I can, I guess,” he added, blinking petulantly as he did so.

And even through the haze of his jubilance, the older Lightfoot recognized this shift in the spellcaster’s visage.

“Hey,” the quester began, reaching to offer his junior a soothing caress. “I’m _sorry_ ,” he grumbled next, dense fingers kneading at the budding geometry of his brother’s blossom into adulthood. “Its just . . . Well, _y’know_. You’re my _baby brother_ . . . I _worry_ about you shacking up with all these older guys—”

“You sound like _Mom_ right now,” the magus protested, doe-eyes rolling in a show of indifference.

“ _Yeah_ , well . . . _Mom’s_ worried about you, _too_ , man . . .” Barley reported, a scowl momentarily blemishing his rugged handsomeness. “And you _know_ how she feels about this weird . . . _thing_ you’ve got going on with _Gaxton_ ,” he pressed, bearded lips pursing in distaste as he withdrew his touch. “The guy went to college with her and _Dad_ , Ian. You can’t exactly _blame_ her for being a little creeped _out_ —"

“You know _what_ , Barley? _Actually?_ I _can_. I’m twenty-two years old, dude. And both of you still treat me like I’m a fucking _kid_ —”

“You _are_ a fuckin’ kid! . . . We’re _both_ fuckin’ kids, next to that guy,” the bard contested, discernable tension rippling through his brawny frame. “And he’s got a _son_ —only a few years younger than _you_ are. Do have any _idea_ what could happen to that kid if his father _loses his job_ , for _dicking around_ with one of his _students?_ He’s one of your _teachers_ , bro—”

“ _You’re_ one of my teachers, bro,” Ian opposed, molten dissention glistering between them as he held his elder’s gaze. “Do _you_ have any idea what could happen to _your_ —your safe, cozy, _stupid_ little marriage if your _perfect wife_ found out her _husband_ wanted his _kid brother_ to swallow his dick—?”

The strike that resounded throughout the humble dining area rang swift and true; a coarsened palm suspended in midair shadowing the delivery of its silencing blow.

“ _Fuck_ , Ian—I—I-I’m _so_ sorry,” Barley blathered, chair groaning against the tiled flooring as he stood to extend his frangible sibling any measure of comfort he could provide. “I-I just lost my temper— _Fuck_ , bro—I’m _sorry_ —I-I dunno what—"

“I-It’s _okay_ . . . I’m _fine_ , man,” the mage murmured, reaching to cradle his fevered cheek. “I had it coming . . .” he chuckled next, the rueful sound of it causing the former Quest Master’s heart to sink.

“ _No_ —No it _isn’t_. Nobody has the right to hit you, dude— _Fuck!_ Lemme grab you some ice—”

“ _Honestly_ —I just—I think you should _go_ ,” the enchanter voiced, tonguing along the heat simmering within his mouth.

“. . . _Go?_ ” Barley echoed, unkempt brows furrowing as his posture slumped. “ _Ian_ , I can’t just—you can’t just _send me home_ when we’re in the middle of a _fight_ like this,” the young professional beseeched. “We haven’t even _made up_ , yet! I-I won’t be able to _sleep_ —!”

“ ** _Look_** , I _forgive_ you, bro. But, if you’re still around when Gaxton or Sorrel get back, there’s gonna be a _fight_ over this, a-and we _both_ know _neither_ one of them could take you,” the wizard foresaw, proffering a shake of his cerulean head as he stood to adjust the dusky flannel clinging to his brittle frame. “Let’s just—L-Let them keep their pride, a-a-and I’ll meet you guys over at _Mom’s_ tomorrow,” Ian counseled, supple hands elevated in mock submission, strengthening his brother’s wounded countenance.

And as liquid treasure poured over bloodied chocolate, Barley allowed himself to be swayed; flat feet shuffling toward the exit of his coworker’s suburban home until they’d reached creaking threshold, the eldest turning to cast a final repentant glance along his demure companion’s fevered injury.

“ _Hey_ ,” the gilded philistine began, hazel eyes brimming with tenderness as he reached to enclose his gifted sibling within the inked marble of his embrace, “ _Look_ , I . . . I know you kinda _hate_ _me_ right now, and I know Heather doesn’t _mean_ that much to you, but . . . We decided we wanted to name the baby after _Dad_.”

The silence following the historian’s admittance was vacuous at first, but the expression he discovered upon the slighter man’s face as he withdrew, was a thing of wonder.

“A-After . . . _Dad?_ But—But I thought—”

“Yeah, I know . . . We talked about naming them after _Mom_ ,” Barley interjected, wetting his lips as he allowed his embrace to descend to the small of his bother’s back. “And we’re _going_ to . . . _One_ of them. _Someday_ ,” his heart ached at the hollow expression tarnishing his junior’s youthful beauty. “But, for our _firstborn_. . . We wanted something inspired by _Dad_ , and . . . And I’d like it if _you_ could help us choose.”

“M . . . _Me?_ You want _me_ to help you choose?” Ian balked; full brows tightly knit in disbelief. “A-A-Are you _sure?_ ”

A reticent nod would come to serve as Barley’s only reply for the time being.

“O- _Oh_ . . . _Wow_ . . . _Barley_ , I uhm . . . I’m _honored_ , man. _Really_ ,” the conjurer stammered, emotions welling up within him that suddenly threatened to overflow. “Do . . . Do you guys have any names _picked_ _out_ yet?”

“Well, _yeah_ ,” Barley chuckled gently, finding the discourse between them slowly dissolving. “Just, _y’know_ , the usual: Wilden, Whimsy, Willow—”

“ _Willow?_ ” the sorcerer balked; head cocked inquisitively. “What’s _‘willow’_ got to do with _Dad?_ ”

“It’s, uhm . . . _Historical_ ,” his mentor apprised, swallowing anxiously as his body began to respond to his sibling’s nearness. “It’s a _‘place of origin’_ thing . . . Dad’s got an old name—”

“I like Willow,” Ian determined, honey and chocolate glinting with mutual pride. “I-I mean, I like them _all_ , but . . . Willow’s _great_.”

“ _Yeah_ . . . Willow’s _great_.”


	2. 🌔 d o r o t h e a 🌔

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A second chime of crystalline mirth, and moonstone gazes met in mutual adulation.

“What’s up superstar?” chimed a voice of inequitable brilliance, ringlets of silken amethyst dressing the display of a scarlet smartphone.

“What— _Me?_ ” their conversant recoiled, the step in his teeth revealed for a timid chuckle. “W- _Wait_ a minute—Who’s the no-name college student, and who’s the _big shot_ who moved to _Yew Bark_ to become a _journalist?_ ”

And the laughter they shared was invaluable, more precious than any illustrious gem.

Save for one.

“’ _No-name’?!_ Uh-uh. _Nope!_ I can’t believe that an _actual_ **_wizard_** just referred to themselves as a no-name,” the caller rebuked, though the luminance of her smile never faltered. “ _Ian_ , baby-doll, you look _incredible!_ Have you been using that _cream_ I sent you? The one from that little— _Oh!_ Hold on!”

A shower of offscreen banter sparked, momentarily distracting his colleague; an eruption of delight and a flurry of apologies denoting her return.

“ _Sorry_ , babe! One of my roommates popped in, and I just—y’know. _Sorry_! Where were we?”

“The, uh, _cream_ —”

“ _Oh_ , that’s right! The _cream!_ ” the writer exclaimed, frenzy emboldening her timbre. “ _Fuck_ the cream! How are _you_ , precious? How’s _life?_ How’s _Mom?_ How’s the _boyfriend?_ ”

Rallying his wits against the whiplash and hysteria, Iandore tendered a flutter of his fawn-like lashes.

“We’re all _great_ , Sadie. Everyone’s _great_ ,” he informed with shrug, reclining against the underfilled accent pillow cradling his cerulean curls. “You know New Mushroomton . . . Nothing ever happens here.”

“Not true,” contested the columnist, “ _You_ happened . . . I happened. _We_ happened . . . I feel like all that’s pretty special.”

Her words, honeyed with sincerity, prompted a flush from the svelte magician; full brows quirking as he gnawed back a trademark deflection.

“I-I mean . . . _Thanks_ , Sadie . . . But, you know what I meant.”

“Yeah, I know what you meant _: ‘Woah is me! I’m surrounded by people who love me! My life is a saddening bore!_ ” rang her glistering drama, bolstered by the toss of a dusky wrist across her forehead.

A second chime of crystalline mirth, and moonstone gazes met in mutual adulation.

“It’s . . . It’s good to hear from you, Sadie . . . Good _seeing_ you, too. E-Even if it _is_ only ever through a screen,” the magus quipped, awaiting his peers’ riposte.

But wistfulness blossomed in its place.

“Well, _hey_ . . . I tried to get you to run away with me,” Sadalia reminded, despondency masked by a saucy grin. “Instead, I ended up here with _Neighdyn_ ,” she sighed, umber eyes flitting to a distant point offscreen, where repartee was scarcely audible.

But Ian recognized the fulsome twang of his cousin’s voice   
  
A voice which represented safety, not so very long ago.

Safety, and transient Summer romances.

“O- _Oh!_ Is Nate there _now?_ ” the magus questioned, ears perking at echo of hooves against woodgrain. “Tell him I said—”

And there he was, suntanned and tempestuous as he stooped to rest his chin atop Sadalia’s shoulder; stubble gently grazing faultless violet.

“ _Howdy_ , sweet thing,” the Centaur hailed, a mustache framing his lopsided grin. “When ya gonna mosey on up here and _join_ us—?”

“ _Excuse_ me,” Sadalia scoffed, confectioned gaze aptly narrowed at the unkempt equine, “This is _my_ Ian time. _Please_ —”

“Lookin’ a little _scrawny_ there, kin,” the hybrid interposed, heavy brows furrowing as he presented his Elven confidante with a peck on the cheek. “That fella’s not feedin’ ya right,” he added next, taking on an edge of dissonance. “I reckon if you put him on here with me, I’ll set him straight right quick—”

“ _Alright_ , _okay_ ,” Sadalia contested, withdrawing to extend her chivalrous beau a look of indifference. “Ian, say goodnight to your cousin. He’s running on fumes, and he’s getting _cranky_ ,” she explained with a lighthearted nudge. “He pulled his _second_ all-nighter this week. _Apparently_ , no one else in the YBPD can be _bothered_ to show up for work, unless they can get a clearance to _harass pedestrians_.”

“ _C’mon_ , sweetheart. Cut the guys a lil’ slack—”

“They’ve got _all_ the slack they need, and _you’re_ losing sleep over it!”

But Ian merely smiled, the quaintness of their lovers’ quarrel heartening him in areas he often neglected.

“I-It’s alright, Sadie . . . _Nate_ , you should try and get some _rest_ , man. You look _exhausted_ ,” the wizard reasoned, full lips pursed in sympathy as he witnessed the mellowing of his cousin’s countenance. “But it was really nice talking to you.”

Heaving a disgruntled sigh, the bronzed hybrid pressed a lingering kiss against Sadalia’s temple.

Though umber never waned from hallowed opal—savoring the occasional glimpse of cherished ruby.

“ _Night_ , sugar. _Love_ ya. _Eat_ somethin’—Love you, baby. See ya when ya come to bed,” he bade, offering an amiable nod before striding from his cousin’s view.

“Love you, _too_ ,” Sadie called, adjusting her posture as she watched the Centaur close himself inside their shared boudoir. “ _Sheesh!_ Alright, where were we— _Oh!_ Hey! _Here’s_ something!”

The mischief in her eyes was nothing short of marvelous.

“I’m all ears,” chirped the enchanter, readied for an exceptionally frivolous tale.

“Okay, so get this. Remember those bougie Minotaurs back in high school? The _couple_ —well, the two in that _arranged marriage._ We all _knew_ they _hated_ each other.”

And in an instant, Iandore’s world was vacuous calm; memories of gilded æther flocking to adorn his pallid world.

“R- _Right_ . . . _Yeah_. I remember. Briar and, uhm—”

“Dorothea! _Yeah!_ Well, she’s got this movie coming out— _'Over?’ ‘Under?’_ Don’t remember—Doesn’t matter! _Anyway_ , guess who got—count ‘em— _two_ interviews with her?”

Doe-eyes rounded in anticipation.

“No kidding! _Really?_ ”

“ _Really!_ They’re coming out next week! There’s gonna be an article _and_ a video, so keep an eye out!”

Despite his enthusiasm for his hometown friend, the gossamer mage couldn’t help but wonder if the bovine couple had arrived _together_.

Would Briar be accompanying his fiancé during her promotional tours?

“I-I will! _Of course_ , I will! _Sadie_ , that’s incredible! I’m so proud of you!”

In his heart of hearts, he hoped the two had managed to fall in love.

Notwithstanding their dissensions, the passive conjurer found he only ever wished the nobleman well.

For heavy was the head that bore the ivory crown.


	3. 🌓 m a r j o r i e 🌓

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Veiled within the flickering gloom, Sorrel narrowed his leer, easing away from his father’s decorous mate.

Another sting, another splinter, another mercurial glimmer.

But when it waned, the dining area was aptly garnished in wistful sepia; lambent tealights strewn nebulously upon the table set with porcelain dinnerware. From filet mignon to fresh cut roses, the conjurer had exhausted every effort to inspire romance.

Iandore had never been the homemaker that his mother was, but she’d guided him through the basics of tonight’s composition. And any moment now, his lover would be arriving home to reap the proverbial fruits of his afternoon-to-evening labor: a luxuriant dinner accompanied by candlelight—

The shrieking hinge of a weathered threshold raked along the keen pinnacle of sun-flecked ears, quickening the youth’s tempo as he reclined the only remaining fragment of his father’s gnarled staff against a cabinet.

Lashes lowered as he offered himself a brief review, the young wizard readjusted his cable-knit cardigan as footfalls glanced along the darkened emptiness of the educator’s home; advancing to reveal . . .

The soured countenance of his Gaxton’s unwieldy offspring, who wasn’t expected until the ensuing evening.

“O-Oh! _Sorrel_ —I-I thought you were—”

“Mom had _better_ things do to. She never showed,” groused the youth, padding past the freckled magus to inspect the scene laid out before him. “The fuck is all _this?_ ”

The frost beneath his timbre went unappreciated.

“Well, I just thought— _Gaxton_ said your _Mom_ would—”

“Don’t talk about my mother,” Sorrel interrupted, jaw tightening as he rounded on the diffident spellcaster, simmering just-beneath his height. “Guess I just _crashed_ your little _party_ , huh? Dad’s not gonna be home for a while anyway,” he apprised, squaring his developing stature as he ambled toward his father’s beau. “Got held up at work. Tried to call him to come scoop me up.”

Iandore clung to the security of his silence, swallowing anxiously as the teen inspected him.

“He . . . He didn’t _tell_ me—”

“Maybe because you’re not his _family?_ Huh? Maybe his **_family_** _’s_ his priority.”

And at this, reciprocal hapless visages.

“ _Look_ , Sorrel . . . I-I _know_ —I’m not here to _replace_ anyone. _Alright?_ I . . . I know I’m not _Marjorie_ —”

“Keep my mother’s _name_ out your _mouth_ , **_faggot_** ,” the younger snarled, treading to occupy more of the timorous summoner’s space. “You seem to think that just ‘cause my _Dad’s_ **stupid enough** _to_ _stick_ his _dick_ in you, that _you_ can come up in here and do whatever the **_fuck_** you want—”

“That’s _not_ —”

“Leave your _shit_ everywhere. Cook and clean and eat with us—You’ve got it all fucked up, dude . . . You’re just here for him to **_fuck_** —”

“Sorrel, can you _please_ just—”

“He’s been through this _before_ , y’know. It’s what he _does_. You won’t last long,” the boy sneered, relishing the glass welling just behind his elder’s fawn-like lashes. “You’re his first _dude_ , though. I’ll give you that much . . . Well, at least I _think_ you’re a dude—”

“ _Please_ , just **_stop_** —”

“Kinda _pretty_ for a guy, though, I guess,” fell the shadow of a commendation, the teen backing the sylphlike sorcerer against the gnawing chill of a granite countertop. “Bet your _Mom’s_ a fuckin’ _snack_ —”

“ _Stop it_ —”

“Big eyes, nice lips, soft skin—”

“ ** _Stop_** _!_ ”

“Typical _cocksucker_ —”

“ **That’s _enough_ , Sorrel**,” came a rumble of thundering baritone, embellished by the beauty of foreign inflection.

Gaxton loomed at the outermost edge of the candlelit scene, heavy brows drawn into a scowl as sable gazes met in opposition.

“ _Chill out_ , Pops—”

“To your _room_ ,” the newcomer barked, jutting his thumb into the darkness beyond the amber glow of the dinner table.

Veiled within the flickering gloom, Sorrel narrowed his leer, easing away from his father’s decorous mate.

“In was just _talkin’_ to him—”

 _“¡ **Sal de aquí y ve a tu cuarto ya mismo**!”_ the eldest bellowed, tone steady despite its elevation.

And the silence that followed was deafening, though quickly disrupted by the shambling of irascible feet as Sorrel bypassed his elders to skulk into his darkened residence.

And then fell a sigh, heightened by an embittered shake of cobalt waves.

“Now, what’s all _this?_ ” the Valles patriarch queried, entwining his arms and maintaining his distance. “You didn’t _tell_ me you were gonna _be_ here.”

“ _Oh_ —U-Uhm—Well, I came over _earlier_ . . . I-I just wanted to _surprise_ you—”

“ _Ian_ ,” the taller man interposed, umber eyes lush and tender as he lowered his arms, admiring the token of affection before him. “I think we need to _talk_ , amor.”

Gentle as it may have been, to Iandore, his elder’s assertion resonated like a warning.

“Oh . . . _Sure_ ,” he smiled, but it tasted like a lie; knitting ample brows as he watched the barbate man saunter toward him. “I-I’m . . . I’m _all_ _ears_.”

But Gaxton merely elevated a lightly calloused palm, thumbing across the flushed silk of his lover’s sun-kissed cheek.

“I’m _sorry_ about what just happened with Sorrel . . . And even _more_ sorry it had to happen _tonight_ , after you prepared such a gorgeous meal . . . But just because I gave you a _key_ , doesn’t mean you can just . . . _show up_ unannounced,” he explained, eyes flitting to the ceiling beneath the muted thuds of his offspring’s tantrum. “If I was living _alone?_ Sure. _Why not._ But _this?_ ” he motioned to the ceiling above them, “Is what I deal with when we don’t _plan_ things . . . _Together_.”

Though he wanted to defend his secrecy, the gifted youth settled for a broken nod.

“I understand . . . I-I’m _sorry_ , Gaxton . . . I just—I wanted us to do something _nice_ together . . . I know you’ve got a lot going on this semester, a-a-and I just— _I_ dunno—It just feels like we never get the chance to just . . . _be a couple_.”

“We _will_ , amor. We will . . . Things are just . . . _tricky_ , right now,” excused the instructor, the brush of his goatee against the softness of his junior’s lips earning him the dimmest of purrs in response. “And you _know_ I love it when you’re here, but you can’t be here _every_ _day_ like this . . . You’re _here_ more than you’re _home_ , these days.”

The magician primed himself to deny his elder’s claims, but realized the man to be correct.

“I-I _know_ . . . I’m _sorry,_ I just—I like being _around_ you,” came the slighter fey’s admittance, freckled lips pursed in apology. “A-And _Mom_ just . . . She talks to me about you when I’m home, and I just . . . I _hate_ the way she _treats_ us like we’re—We’re just _not_ Barley and _Heather_ , y’know? A-A-And I don’t even _want_ us to be Barley and Heather. I-I don’t even _need_ us to be them—I just want her to treat us like we _matter_ —”

Hysteria was silenced by the onset of their second endearment; Gaxton lapping the festering bitterness from the illusionist’s tongue.

And Ian’s world was heady musk and the remnants of this morning’s aftershave, conjuring the phosphorescence of a distant memory.

Suspensions of a painted world, and eyes of endless treasure—

“I like being around you, too,” the educator cooed, placing another kiss against his lover’s lips, then one last into the ribbons of his mane. “ _Alright_. Come on. Our _dinner’s_ getting cold.”

But upon the mage’s tongue, an omen:

folklore, in theory and practice.


	4. 🌒 b e t t y 🌒

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The spellcaster presented a shrug, baby-doll eyes flitting between the contrast of his comrade’s tan lines.

Rainfall against an aluminum roof, and eyes of mellow umber.

Afternoons like these were made for listless conversation, and the solace of familiar embraces.

Even _if_ the arms that held you weren’t the ones to whom you belonged.

“ _So_ . . . Did I tell you I talked to _Sadie?_ It’s been a few _weeks_ , but . . .” the spellcaster trailed, eyes rested closed against the corroded fabric of his bedmate’s wifebeater. “Talked to _Neighdyn_ , too.”

A thunderous yawn dispersed their whispering calm.

“And what’s ol’ _Nate_ got goin’ on?” rumbled a drawl to rival that of the Centaur in question. “They still livin’ in that shitty pad with the leaky roof?”

Red-velvet raised to eye the scars and bristle of their companion’s jaw, glimmering with mischief as they found their trenchant focus to be flippantly ignored.

“Tanner, your roof was leaking _all Spring long_ , man . . . You _kinda_ don’t have any right to talk shit,” the magus chided, freckled lips tugged into an offset smirk.

“Watch it, _runt_ . . . Had to wait ‘til that repair kit came in at the shop,” the broader man excused, coarsened fingers tracing patterns into the wizard’s spine. “Still waitin’ on that part fer my truck, _too_ , or I’d take you fer a ride.”

Iandore arched an incredulous brow, discernable ignorance tinting his visage

“What’s wrong with just . . . chillin’ _here?_ It’s _nice_.”

“Might be nice fer _you_ ,” Tanner refuted, “But all this _cuddlin’_ and no _fuckin’s_ pretty rough.”

He felt the slighter man tense against him, offering little else in response.

“I _know_ you like me . . . _You_ know it too—”

“I-It’s not _about_ that,” Ian interposed, exhaling as he bolstered himself upon an elbow, leering down at his former aggressor. “We’re both in a _relationship_ , Tanner,” he prompted, elevating into a seated position. 

His bedmate mirrored his disgruntled sigh, toughened fingers raising to pinch at the bridge of his crooked nose.

“Jus’ _had_ to open my mouth—Yeah. _Sure_ ,” agreed the larger, erecting himself to sit alongside his childhood friend. “We’re _both_ in relationships, and _neither_ of us are _satisfied_ —”

“That’s not _true_ ,” the magician disputed, youthful features marred by discontent. “I never said I wasn’t _satisfied_. _Gaxton_ —he’s just—he’s _busy_ right now—”

“But the _sex_ ain’t any good,” Tanner countered, offering the quirk of a scarred brow.

“W-What are you even _talking_ about, man? The sex is _great_ —”

“But he don’t fuck you like _I_ do—”

“ ** _Stop_** _it!_ ” Ian barked; blue rose flushed in irritation. “ _Just_ —Just _stop_ it, Tank . . . You’ve got _Este_ , and she _adores_ you . . . And she doesn’t _deserve_ to _worry_ about what you’re _up to_ all the time—if you’re _dicking_ _around_ on her . . . I-If Barley’s taught me _anything_ worth remembering, it’s that you don’t _fuck_ with a good thing . . . ‘Cause once that trust is gone? Its just . . . _gone_.”

A standstill would conclude their fleeting dispute; reinforced by an irate tousle of unctuous hair.

“Alright. Okay,” the tyrant grumbled, dark eyes seeking audience with blameless valentines. “You’re _right_. I _hear ya_. I’m _sorry_ . . . I just—I miss _us_ , okay? I miss how things used to _be_ between us.”

Iandore could only nod, solemn visage giving way to sympathy as he allowed his companion to breech their distance with an oil-stained caress.

“I-I know . . . I _get_ _it_ , dude, but . . . That was _then_ ,” the magus reminded, knitting ample brows as he allowed himself the familiarity of a calloused hand against the marquise of his jaw. “Maybe in another life, but—Things are . . . Everything’s _different_ now.”

Eyes of prideful umber poured across the dappled details of their former beau.

“ _Yeah_ . . . They sure as Hel are.”

With a lengthy stretch, the bigger man rose from his tangle of weathered bedding to pad across the grime of his camper floor.

“You want a b— _coffee?_ ” he offered, bleary eyes pouring over the rusted details of his steel kettle. “Gonna put some fresh on,” he added, feeling eyes upon his back.

And with a reticent smile, the sun-kissed conjurer nodded, taking note of his peer’s near slip-of-the-tongue.

Following a several-year struggle with alcoholism, substance abuse, and their resulting misdemeanors, Tanner had been forced to partake in a series of rehabilitation programs, having been only recently acquitted from house arrest, and receiving clearance to return to the work force.

Though—as it happens— _one_ addiction was traded for the _next_ , booze and opioids giving way to caffeine and cigarettes.

But Iandore was proud of any progress made, and it was good to see his longtime friend as any manner of ‘himself’ again, after spending so many years reduced to a shadow of his homecoming glory.

“Somethin’ on my _face_ , Lightweight?” came a rumble of grit and ember, drawing the summoner from his inner musings.

“Y- _Yeah_. Coffee—Sounds _great_ ,” the slighter man agreed, sable hailing axinite as Tanner searched his guest’s countenance. “So, uhm—Did you ever read that _book_ I gave you?”

“The one about the uh,” a pause to adjust the portable stove, “trippy little _‘Halflings’_ , or—”

“ _Right_ ,” Ian chirped, lower lip drawn between his teeth. “A-And did you find that _other_ one? The one I, uh . . . stole from _Barley?_ ”

A snort of amusement echoed within their gnarled aluminum bastion, the twist of a clipped brow marking a series of tacit musings.

“Didn’t know it was _Barley’s_ , but yeah, I found it. Well, _Este_ found it one day she was here . . .” he trailed, carelessly dropping a few gauzy pouches into the boiling kettle. “She asked if she could read it, so it’s over at her place . . . _Sorry_ , shoulda asked you first, but . . . Why don’t you call her up and ask her if she’s done with it?”

At this, the spellcaster presented a shrug, baby-doll eyes flitting between the contrast of his comrade’s tan lines.

“ _I_ dunno . . . I guess I just—I don’t _know_ her like that,” the sorcerer conceded, offering his nape a bashful scratch. “I-It doesn’t _matter_ that much. She’s _careful_. She’ll take care of it. Just try and remember it next time you visit.”

A nod in solidarity marked the end of this discussion, and within the silence that followed, the faintly taller man readied their coffees: one pitch black, and one with layered cream and sweetener.

“How’s _Jenny?_ ” came the philistine’s next inquiry. “Have you even heard from her, since—”

“ _No_ ,” Ian interjected, shadowed by a shake of his coiled mane. “She’s gonna need some _time_ . . . Her sister meant _a lot_ to her.”

“ _Yeah_ , she . . .” Tanner trailed, sightlessly gazing into the distance as he allowed himself a lengthy drink. “Betty was a _riot_ . . . They don’t come much pluckier than _that_ one.”

They shared a second nod, this time in rumination.

“Barley took it pretty hard,” Ian added then, full lips pursing at the memory.

“Well, _yeah_ . . . Didn’t they _graduate_ together? Same year, right?”

“ _And_ she was one of his _campaign_ buddies . . . They wrote some pretty great stories together,” the illusionist recalled, lashes lowered as he mused. “I-I dunno what I’d _do_ if I . . . If _Barley_ . . . Y’know?”

But Tanner shook his oily head, blinking listlessly.

“Can’t say I do . . . You’re the closest thing to a brother I’ve _got_ ,” the greater man professed, sable greeting sanguine moonstone.

And as quiet settled in around them, Iandore offered the outcast’s bichrome arm a tender caress.

“Well . . . _I’m_ not going anywhere, Tank,” the mage assured, adulation on his lips.

“I’ve loved you _this_ long . . . Might as well stick around _forever_.”


	5. 🌑 i v y 🌑

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barley’s repartee was all the illusionist required to quell his billowing anxiousness.

Seamless blather intermingled with strident belting from the man upon the makeshift stage; his buzzsaw baritone bounding from the bar-lit walls as he offered one final bellow, reaping a merited round of drunken applause.

Though appreciative as he may have been, he paid them little mind; muddled focus settling upon a pair of honied doe-eyes, prudently tucked behind the bulk of his stumbling audience.

With a modest glance, his world was red-velvet and carnal desire; and his capacity to deny his budding appetite was swiftly diminishing.

“Many thanks! _Thank_ -you! _Yeah_ , I’ll be here all week,” Barley slurred, receiving a lighthearted grimace from his gifted muse, but a second round of applause from his addled listeners.

Broad feet waded through a mortal sea of mirth and liquor, the jovial bard lumbering toward his willowy sibling, sweeping him up and into the impenetrable might of his embrace.

“Was my performance,” he paused for a hiccup, “to your _liking_ , my liege?”

A tentative chuckle lit his flourished ears, the slighter man relinquishing himself to the affections of his inebriated guardian.

“ _Sure_ , man. You were great up there,” Ian smiled, brows pinched as he labored for air against his brother’s grasp.

But no sooner than his elder had registered the burden in his voice was he surrendered, chafed oxfords leveling against scuffed timber.

“Brings back _memories_ , huh? Remember when _Mom_ and I used to _drag_ you to Karaoke bars like this and—”

“Sing **_at_** me in public? _Yes_ ,” the magus quipped, the step in his teeth revealed as he submitted a shake of his cherubic head. “Time of my _life_.”

“Used to turn the _prettiest_ shade of— _Oop!_ Hold that thought. Gotta take a piss,” his mentor pardoned, swaying as he tendered his junior a coarse pat along the incline of his shoulders before vanishing behind the shrill offset of double doors.

It was a rare night out for the Lightfoot brothers.

Conditions had been _perfect_ for an evening escape, with both of their lovers busied, and no impending assignments to complete between them.

When was the last time they’d been this at-ease while in each other’s company? Or simply enjoyed each other for what they were?

Perhaps even . . . enjoyed each other for what they _weren’t?_

Guiltless eyes contemplated the shifting threshold, a brilliant mind toiling beneath the filter of scarlet wine.

Thus, Iandore surrendered to his gravest impulses, ambling through the rasping entrance behind his kin, effortlessly locating the men’s restroom within the leaflet-riddled hallway. Following a second shrieking hinge, he found himself met with a corroded series of stalls and urinals.

It wasn’t all that challenging to identify which one contained his elder sibling, the humming of interwoven folksongs—harmonized with the ocher flow of his relief—heralding his whereabouts.

He permitted his protector a moment to himself, pending the sound of a spluttering flush and the unbolting of the partition door. And before the broader man could propose a reaction, his junior’s hands were on his chest, coaxing him back into the stall.

Lips on bearded lips, and ravenous hands on sweat and grit as Ian devoured the boisterous might of his brother’s mouth.

“ _Door_ ,” Barley mumbled into their endearment; and in an instant, the enchanter had secured them within their filthy confines. “ _Y’know_ , we really _shouldn’t_ —”

“You _want_ it,” Ian interposed, granting himself a second taste of his sumptuous hero—imbued with pineapple cognac. “You’ve been starin’ at me all night—Like you’ve got somethin’ to _say_ to me.”

Another kiss, another quarrel of teeth and tongues; the quester’s calloused fingers trembling as he pawed beneath the layers of his sibling’s attire, starving for the luxuriant silk of fragranced skin.

“ _I know_ . . . I know, but—"

“Where’s your sense of _adventure?_ ” the mage challenged; lashes lowered as he studied the Quest Master’s chapped lips. “Just say _‘yes’_.”

“I’m just—I’m _drunk_ , Ian. I’m not _thinkin’_ —”

“Then don’t _think_ ,” the slighter man dissuaded, bolstering himself upon his toes to breathe into the shell of his instructor’s ear. “ _Just_ . . . Just let yourself _have_ what you _want_.”

The delicate fey’s proposal was hauntingly familiar, but this time, the greater of them lacked the rectitude to deny him.

“You’re _shit_ , you _know_ that?” Barley groused, bucking into the supple hand kneading his concealed manhood. “Gorgeous, _delicious_ , **_incredible_** shit,” he added between endearments, poisoned by the decadence of artlessness, and violet perfume. “Look what you’re _doin’_ to me.”

“I haven’t done _anything_ to you yet,” Ian whispered, the fullness of his freckled lips sweetened by a smile. “But I _could_ be,” he pressed, fingers deftly unfastening his elder’s fly. “You just . . . have to tell me what you _want_.”

And Barley’s resolve was promptly dispelled, a furrow of his ungroomed brows marking his internal dissention.

“I don’t want it to _be_ like this, dude . . . I wanna _love_ you,” the traveler professed, extending a shake of his unctuous head. “You deserve _better_ than this . . . We could get a room? _I’ll pay_ —I just—I wanna take my _time_ —”

“Cut the _shit_ , dude,” the summoner reproached, “By the time we get to a hotel, you’ll be sobered up and you’ll hate my guts—”

“That’s _not_ _true_ —!”

“You’re gonna hate me either way, so what’s the point in _stalling?_ ”

The skreiching threshold resounded once more, announcing the entrance of another bibulous patron. In that moment, both of them were grateful for the glistering roar of classic rock cascading from the overhead sound system.

“We’re gonna get _caught_ in here!” Barley hissed, bracing himself as his pupil descended to his knees. “I could lose my _job_ , Ian! I’m one of your _teachers!_ You take my _class_ —”

“ _Yeah?_ And I’m your _baby_ _brother_. Want me to suck your dick, or _not_ , Barley?” Ian dissented, forgoing a response as he freed his hero’s clublike hardness from its denim confines. “ _Fuck_ , that’s pretty . . . You took your _ring_ out, _huh?_ . . . _Pussy_.”

The historian was rendered silent, visage tempered by adulation as he watched his gossamer sibling lap the lucent nectar from the head of his engorged cock.

“ _Mmm_ . . . Yummier than I remember,” purred the wizard, confectioned gaze elevating to mingle with his stout kin’s. “Can’t wait to tase _the rest_.”

And with a parting of pastel petals, Iandore engulfed as much of his professor’s girth as he could manage; wary of his teeth as he forced the bulk of Barley’s pulsating rigidity into the balmy velvet of his throat.

With this, they were alone again; emboldening the younger to establish a stable rhythm, easing himself slightly deeper with each dive.

“ _Fuck_ , Ian,” the voyager gritted, knees buckling as he conceded to desire. “I dunno how you _do_ it,” he fawned, darkened eyes rolling shut as he relished the sensation of being devoured. “It’s kinda fucked up how _fast_ you get me there.”

But the chuckle this wrung from his sun-kissed junior only served to enhance his gratification, inspiring him to buck into the varnished tautness of his sibling’s enveloping warmth.

“That dirty old man better appreciate the _fuck_ out of this . . . He’d better fuckin’ _deserve_ it,” Barley grated, clenching his jaw as the decorous magician quickened his pace. “ _Slow_ _down_ , baby bro—Don’t make me cum yet.”

And with an audible pop and a laboring gasp, the svelte conjurer eyed the glistening endowment before him, presenting a chaste kiss to the hooded glans.

“Might as well just let it _happen_. We don’t have a lot of time,” Ian contended, offering the drooling tip another licentious lap. “I-I really want you _inside_ me, but—“

“That’s why I wanted to get a _room_ —!”

“We just don’t have _time_. I’m hungry _now_. I can’t _wait_ anymore,” the slighter pouted, tears of effort beading in his lashes as he sheathed his mentor’s length within his covetous throat.

His heartbeat thundered in his ears, ostensibly timed to the inane echo whirring from the speakers overhead; and to this he harmonized his descents and withdrawals, allowing himself the occasional choke despite his best efforts to manage his gag reflex.

But Barley didn’t seem to mind.

“Can’t hold back much longer, baby,” the mellow brute cautioned, dense fingers sliding from the graffiti-laden walls to palm the edges of his brother’s heart-shaped face. “You’re just too fuckin’ _good_ . . . You’re gonna make me bust.”

And as Iandore permitted his elder to adapt their rhythm, he tendered a misted wink, savoring the notion of being used as an extension of the wanderer’s pleasure.

“Where do you want my _cum_ , little bro?” inquired the Quest Master, hammering into the lustrous grip of his junior’s slender orifice. “You want it down your _neck?_ ”

Notwithstanding his best efforts to nod his approval, the spellcaster found himself firmly secured, toughened fingers tangling in his locks.

“ _Fuck_ —Here it _comes_ . . . _Swallow_ for me—”

Suddenly, his nose was buried in the brine and musk and cerulean curls at the base of his instructor’s cock, endeavoring to swallow every vigorous eruption of bitter release.

The older Lightfoot’s muted growls were fortuitously lost beneath the droning of the sound-system, in time for the arrival of another patron.

And when at length the lecturer had emptied the bulk of his seed into his student’s rapacious throat, he gently eased himself out, shuddering as he went. He nodded his thanks—breath hitching as his gifted sibling nursed the last astringent droplets from his softening manhood—then helped him to a faltering stand.

“ _Ah_. Wonderful. _Here_ comes that pesky guilt,” Barley jested, bestowing the waifish adept with an indulgent kiss, the heady scent and flavor of himself still vivid on his brother’s lips.

“If you’re _lucky_ , you won’t _remember_ in the morning,” Ian quipped, a flimsy guise for the emptiness behind his lopsided grin. “ _C’mon_. Let’s get _out_ of here,” he added, assisting his drunken educator in refastening his paint-flecked denims, subsequently escorting him from the grimy stall.

Beyond the stench and flickering fluorescence of the restroom, another spirited anonymous belted from the backlit stage; their discordant warble dissipating as the siblings withdrew from the tavern, met with the languorous waltz of developing snowdrift.

“Seriously? _More_ snow?” Barley griped, timbre ringing along the glacial calm. “Y’know _what?_ Blessing in _disguise_. Maybe we’ll get _snowed-in_ by Monday morning,” he chuckled, bearded lips tugging into a smarmy grin.

“We getting a _cab_ or—”

“A _cab?_ **_Nay_** _!_ A knight of _my_ honorable caliber, _prostrated_ to a stranger’s mercy? I should think **_not_** , little lord!” the fabler bellowed, wobbling beneath the gravity of his inebriation.

Ian arched an ample brow, wincing at the notion of his boisterous mentor driving while intoxicated amongst the onset of a flurry.

“ _Barley_ , are you . . . Are you _sure_ that’s a good _idea_ , man? I-It’s kinda _snowing_ , and you haven’t sobered up yet.”

Though his elder dismissed his apprehension, gesticulating as he presented an obstinate shake of his greasy head.

“ ** _Bah_** _!_ Snow, _schmo_. I’ll be alright,” the quester dismissed, a roguish grin illuminating his flushed visage. “ _Besides_ . . . I’d never hear the _end_ of it if Heather thought I got too wasted to drive myself home,” he reasoned, extending a doleful chuckle as drew his dappled muse against chest. “Oh, don’t gimme that _look_ . . . I live like, what? _Fifteen_ _minutes_ from here? You’re the one who should be gettin’ a _cab_. Long way back to _Mom’s_ from here.”

And as the frigid breeze began to sober him, Iandore found himself filled with a glimmer remorse.

He wondered if Barley felt the same.

“ _Alright_ , well . . . _Hey_ . . . I-I’m _sorry_ for jumpin’ you in there—”

“ _Nah_ ,” Barley intervened, pursing his lips as he exhaled. “I don’t think you are. And that’s _okay_. You don’t have anything to _lose_ . . . I coulda put a stop to it if I _wanted_ . . . And I _didn’t_. Takes _two_ , y’know?”

But as his champion concluded, the mage couldn’t help but feel as though his transgressions had been too easily absolved.

“ _Also_ ,” Barley pressed, drawing his sylphlike pupil closer still. “I heard what you _said_ back there, and I didn’t care for it _one bit_ . . . I don’t _wanna_ **forget** about this. A _real_ man _owns up_ to his mistakes. I _fucked_ _up_. I _did_. And that’s on _me_. But we _both_ know this was a _longtime_ comin’ . . . Jus’ gotta try and _learn_ from it.”

The younger Lightfoot found himself in enshrouded in melancholy, proffering a broken nod as his forehead was kissed; the brush of a noble beard against his freckled temple eliciting a hum of repletion.

“ _Hey_ . . . _Look_ at me,” the historian beckoned, gilded ivy pouring into hallowed moonstone. “I _love_ you. _So much_. But I’m freezin’ my _nuts_ off, and I’m gonna _need_ ‘em if I plan on makin’ any more rug rats.”

Barley’s repartee was all the illusionist required to quell his billowing anxiousness.

At least, until a moment later—doll-eyes rounding and bewildered as his elder pressed another barbate kiss into the softness of his lips—allowing them a decisive taste of one another before their disengagement.

“ _Mm_ . . . _Fuck_ , your lips are soft . . . Now if we could just _fatten_ _you_ _up_ a lil’ more,” the gamer teased, earning himself a comical punch in his infamous gut.

“Fuck _off_ , Barley . . . Love you, _too_. Drive safely,” Ian apprised, granting his brother a final embrace and once last kiss into the ribbons of his mane. “See you in class,” he added next, the breadth of his mentor’s hand slipping from his own as at last they parted ways. 

As he unlocked and seated himself within the chilled familiarity of his mother’s former vehicle, Iandore found himself laboring to exhale the weight of his emotions.

What had he gotten them into _this_ time?

Inquiries for a later date, he told himself; attempting to shake the disquiet from his coiled head as he placed his key into the ignition, full brows knitting at the audible falter of the engine preceding its roar to life.

“Okay . . . _Great_ ,” he retorted, allowing Barley’s violet minivan—aptly titled Guinevere the Third— a bit of distance before pulling from his parking spot and into the vacuous night.

The bucolic byways encircling his metropolitan hometown were lengthier than he cared to remember. And through the achromatic lens of mirrored waning moonlight, Ian found himself unable to decipher if that was due to the escalating snowfall, or the fact that he’d underestimated his indulgence in pomegranate wine. 

He eyed his speedometer, rolling bleary eyes as he decelerated, tonguing at the dehydration behind his lips.

There was an incontrovertible charm to the pastoral dreamscapes beyond the bustle of civic living, and pathways like this one—even while eclipsed by winter sleep—epitomized a life in which one could truly evade the ardent cruelty of the prosaic.

His mind invoked the recollection of he and his raucous sibling outmaneuvering the authorities on a road much like this one, years prior. But the memory, however mirthful, would bring him nothing but bereavement.

So much _beauty_. So much _innocence_.

So much _disappointment_.

The six years shadowing the Lightfoot family’s grand voyage had been little more than inexorable monotony, and Iandore felt as though nothing he’d accomplished since, had been any more worthwhile than his failed quest.

The concept was maddening.

 _Heartbreaking_ , even.

It crept in through the windows of his soul at night; a twilit beast looming just beyond the outskirts of his clarity.

Haunting, horrifying, and ridiculing him.

Barley had performed _exceptionally_ , consummating every meticulous goal he’d set for himself.

But where were _Ian’s_ victories?

And what would become his delegated role within his brother’s flourish into fatherhood?

Tempestuous fallouts brought about by temptation? Seedy blowjobs concealed within the squalid walls of public lavatories?

How long could he continue to poison the purity of their love before it was justly rescinded?

He set his jaw, epiphany lapping at the soft-focus of his liquid diversion.

“You just _had_ to go and fuckin’ _do_ _it_ , huh?” he chided, self-loathing gnawing at the fringes of his threadbare psyche. “Just couldn’t leave well enough _alone?”_

Midsummer memories of guiltless youth fluttered throughout his nebulous mind, deriding the tension welling in his throat as he found himself striving for focus against the anguish and the halo of his headlights upon the snow-kissed backroads—

And in a flash of porcelain plumage, his vehicle collided with a passing unicorn; propelling him into a whirl against the sleet beneath his balding tires, adrenaline surging through him as he strove to regain a modicum of control.

But before he could so much as detect his emergency break amongst the whiplash and turbulence, his mother’s SUV was airborne; his seatbelt locking him in-place as the weight of his fiberglass enclosure inverted to plunge into what he could only assume to be a nearby river—dragging him into the darkness as he grappled with his safety belt and reached for his remaining splinter of his father’s staff.

“A- _Aloft_ —Aloft _Elevar!_ ” he shrieked, a feeble glow emanating from the branched pinnacle. “ _Fuck!_ ” he shouted next, frigid murk seeping in around him. “Aloft _Elevar!_ _Aloft **Elevar**!_ **Aloft** —”

But horror had taken hold, the resplendence of his Heart’s Fire lost to him as he clambered to perform any spell he could remember.

“B- ** _Boombastia_** _!_ ” he thundered, effulgence bursting forth to illuminate his blackened cab—simultaneously shattering every window in the process—liquid darkness rushing in around him as he shrieked against the bitter chill.

His fragile body fought against the boreal shock to the best of its ability, even as he held his breath and flung himself through his nearest exit; endeavoring to maneuver toward the surface of the water.

But the current had taken him, flinging him to-and-fro within its arctic bitterness. And as his final cherished breaths escaped him—lungs filled instead by the icy current—the waiflike sorcerer found his mind yielding to unconsciousness.

And then came a silence—null and bleak.

**Author's Note:**

> Any questions or comments are welcome and appreciated. Thank-you for reading.


End file.
